Chapter 67
Cart wheels grind over loose stones, a contrasting symphony to the patter of snow hitting the canopy, interrupted only when Noeve pulls a sizzling draw on her smoke stick.
Other than that, silence.
No howling wind or grunts of disapproval from the big, fluffy colk pulling us along. No creaking of the cart’s old joinery as it’s pushed from side to side, because it’s not getting pushed.
“Strange. In all my phases of carting folk along the Path of Daes, I’ve never known the air to be so still,” Noeve croaks, blowing a long puff into the air, one hand loosely draped around the reins.
“Clode’s been grinding Bulder’s edges through here for eons.
Most aren’t old enough to remember, but the Path was once twice as wide.
” Another deep, sizzling suck. “I had it in mind she planned to keep blowing until she broke all the way through.”
Frowning, I look over my shoulder, lifting the flap that separates Noeve and me from the others in the stowage compartment, shielded by the taut leather arch.
Pyrok’s taking up the most space, snoring on his back, sprawled across the plump, feather-filled sacks Noeve’s carting to Gore. An open flask is in his hand, against his sternum, threatening to spill.
I look at Ahvi bundled with his head on a sack, his hatchling coiled in a prickly knot against his chest. Both are half covered by a furry throw, slumbering beside Raeve, who’s perched at the end with her back against the side.
One leg dangling out the cart, she’s poised like a dragon protecting her clutch—spine straight, chin high as she scans the path behind us, dancing a dragonscale blade between her fingers.
Every now and then, her lips move … quietly shaping words I’ve seen her shape before.
“I don’t think Clode has a choice,” I murmur in response to Noeve’s musings, about to drop the flap when Pyrok starts tossing his head back and forth.
“I’m sssorry. So sorry,” he slurs through his slumber, face crunched. “Why didn’t you tell me how fuckin’ sad you were?”
Raeve stills, watching him toss his head a few more times before she turns to me, concern swimming in her big blue eyes.
Quick as a blink, she snatches the flask from Pyrok’s lax hand and pelts it out the back. “He’s got more than one, right?”
“At least two others.” I’ve never seen him drink this much, though I can’t remember the last time he came so close to Gore. Given everything, I guess it stacks up. “But he’ll hate you for it,” I tack on.
Raeve seems to weigh it up, mutters a curt “fuck it,” then digs through the deep pockets of his cloak, finding three more flasks she condemns to a misty grave. Releasing a sigh, she shuffles back against the edge and gets back to dancing her blade.
“Interesting, that one.”
At Noeve’s voice, I turn forward, my gaze chasing the gnarly path that cuts through a sea of white. “Raeve?” I ask, flicking up my hood against the bitter chill, shuffling deeper into the cushioned seat that’s a welcomed, albeit unexpected luxury.
Noeve nods. Sucks another breath through her smoke stick. “Interesting name, too.”
My heart stills.
She looks sidelong at me, a gray brow arching up her heavily creased forehead, her next words much quieter than I’m used to her speaking.
“She looks like a certain someone I also escorted along this path around fifty cycles ago. Someone with long white hair, much like her late grandmah.” With a tilt of her head, she says, “A coincidence, perhaps?”
I stare at her for a long while before I turn my attention forward again, cross my arms, and clear my throat. “A coincidence, yes.”
Noeve hums, then draws another sizzling puff.
My lips tighten. “You see much.”
“When you’ve been around as long as I have, seeing is what one does best.”
“On that note …” I glance back to check Pyrok is still sleeping. “Any news on Dothea? I sent her a lark over thirty cycles ago. Haven’t heard back, though I know the Mists are causing problems.”
Noeve seems to hesitate, then shakes her head, keeping her voice low. “I was smuggling folk clear of the city for the queen, but our line of communication sputtered.”
“Damn.”
Another dip of her head before she draws deep and slashes me with a smile. “Onto brighter notes, did you take a good look at my new cushions?” She winks, slapping her hand on the vacant one wedged between us. “Made from raffi fibers all the way from the north. They cost me a pretty fortune.”
“Well spent. Never thought I’d see the cycle this cart would be privy to such luxuries.”
Another raise of her brow as she looks at me from the creased corner of her eye. “It was Veya’s suggestion, purchased with the takings from her last crossing.”
My heartbeat thunders at the mention of my sister. “You’ve seen her since I passed through last?”
“A little over thirty cycles ago.”
She must’ve stopped by Gore on her way to Arithia …
“Did she say where she was going?”
“To see the velvet trogg.”
I still. Pretty sure I hear Raeve choke on a breath, probably listening.
“Did she … return?”
A single nod has never struck so hard. “Seeming rather pleased with herself. And boasting a silver bangle she wasn’t wearing prior.”
Suspicion mounts behind my ribs like bulging lava. “Did it have jewels on it?”
Noeve’s eyes glint. “Indeed. And a rather unnerving aura.”
“That lying little—” I cut myself off, shaking my head as I snatch a parchment lark diving toward me.
I open it, checking for Veya’s script. Seeing that it’s not hers only riles me more.
She told me she got rid of that damn bangle, then told me she lied. No doubt reluctant to mention she disposed of it down the trash chute in Gore, knowing full well I would’ve forbidden her from retrieving it.
For good reason.
Many folk have been swallowed by that lair. The fact that she survived is a fucking miracle.
“It gets much hotter up here and I’ll need you to travel in the back,” Noeve gripes past her wobbling smoke stick, loosening the collar of her tunic.
I corral the rage of Rygun’s flame I’d accidentally opened myself to, dousing the heat as I pocket the lark, internally chastising myself.
He’s under stern instruction to keep guard over the burrow Líri and Maell are hutched in east of the Path. There are too many scouts near Gore. Too many spies stationed on the plains south of the wall to risk them flying anywhere near our destination.
If I don’t keep Rygun on lockdown—don’t maintain the calm flow ebbing through our bond—he might drop his guard on the others. Make a launch for me just to see for himself that I’m okay.
“Apologies. Won’t happen again.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Noeve continues to puff plumes of smoke through the drifting snow while I churn, wishing Borg had something for me on Veya’s whereabouts or well-being.
Anything.
Chances are she couldn’t find the diary and is currently drinking her sorrows in some back alley, ridding drunkards of their riches at a Skripi table. Or perhaps she found an opportunity to gather important intel on our brothers’ military status. But this chest-crushing feeling of not knowing—
It’s hard to breathe through.